


Man Don't Care

by dlm



Series: Hartwin Week [2]
Category: Kingsman: The Secret Service (2015)
Genre: Hartwin Week, M/M, this was A Pain 2 write tbh but ayyy lmao
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-21
Updated: 2015-08-21
Packaged: 2018-04-16 12:01:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,559
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4624587
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dlm/pseuds/dlm
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Right,” Roxy exhales. “‘True love’,” she says, making air quotes, “doesn’t come cheap. But,” she turns to face Eggsy with a manic look in her eyes, and Eggsy would be lying if he said he wasn’t the slightest bit frightened--”didn’t you mention something about needing a suit for some sort of event for uni?”</p><p>Eggsy feels himself relax.</p><p>“Also, we can just, like, steal a suit to get his attention, or something.”</p><p>Never mind then.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Man Don't Care

**Author's Note:**

> does this count as day 7 for [hartwin week. ](http://hartwinweek.tumblr.com) it's an AU, so.
> 
> this is the one where eggsy's a frazzled postgraduate student and harry's an Actual Tailor.
> 
> this was lit written for the prompt, "i don't have wifi so i'm going to ask my hot neighbour for theirs" n it spiralled wildly out of control..so...hello
> 
> (title taken from JME)

“What do you mean, your flat doesn’t have wifi?” Roxy’s eyes widen in horror. She closes the door shut and toes her flats off out of habit.

“I’ve just moved, give me a break fam.” Eggsy grumbles as Jeremy Kyle yells at a pregnant woman on the telly playing in the background. He’s already sprawled on the couch, and he pats the empty seat next to him.

“You said ‘Netflix and chill’,” Roxy reminds him, making air quotes as she takes a seat.

“I didn’t know you meant it literally,” Eggsy retorts, and they both stare at his laptop bleakly. “Besides, don’t you have internet on your phone or something?”

“4G, yeah, for one device only though.” Roxy sighs, shaking her iPhone. “I’m guessing you…”

“I ain’t got credit, yeah,” he finishes.

They sink into his sofa in despair. Jeremy Kyle’s scolding some poor child, now, and Roxy pushes her hair back, groaning.

“Turn it off,” she wails.

“We need entertainment, innit,” he replies.

They manage to watch another five minutes of _The Jeremy Kyle Show_ before Roxy shoves Eggsy, who manages to bang his elbow against the hard wooden arm of the sofa.

“Ow,” he says plaintively, rubbing his elbow to dissuade the pain, and Roxy scoffs.

She rolls over so her back is pressed against Eggsy’s shoulder. “Can’t you like, ask a neighbour for their wifi password or something?”

Eggsy hums, a noncommittal noise.

“I’m serious,” she says, burying her feet under the sofa pillows on the other end.

“I dunno, Rox, there’s only one other bloke who lives on this floor.”

“Ask him, then.”

“No, he’s like, proper rich. Super intimidating. He has like, subscriptions to five newspapers, or something.” Eggsy says fervently.

Roxy raises an eyebrow. “Maybe he’s just really into current affairs.”

“Maybe he’s a murderer,” Eggsy says, and they both laugh.

“Fine, we’ll stick to Jeremy bloody Kyle,” she sighs, and Eggsy grins.

 

* * *

 

“It’s been a _week_ , Gary Unwin.” Roxy says as she slams the door shut.

Eggsy winces. “Look, I’ve been busy with uni,” he says, reaching behind him to scratch an itch in the middle of his back.

It’s not much of a lie, really, he really has been busy. Getting a masters wasn’t simply an extension of school, as he had falsely thought.

“Why did you even decide to take a masters?”

“Undergraduate students fill me with a false sense of maturity,” he jokes. “That, and really cheap alcohol I’m now entitled to.” He says the latter with a put-upon posh accent, and that gets him a laugh out of Roxy.

She squints. “Is that a textbook with googly eyes glued on to it?”

“They’re stuck on with blu-tack, I’m not a savage,” Eggsy dismisses.

“Right,” Roxy says, and falls onto Eggsy’s sofa with a little ‘oomph’ noise. “The wifi, Eggsy.”

“I can’t be arsed,” he confesses. “I usually stay at the uni library and get wifi there.” He’s stayed back till closing hours more than once under the guise of studying when he’s really just got his books open with his laptop stuck on stupid buzzfeed articles. Sometimes, he just needs to know 18 ‘Game of Thrones’ moments improved by ‘Monty Python and the Holy Grail’ quotes. Never mind that he doesn’t even watch Game of Thrones.

“You saddo, I bet you don’t even study then.” She punctuates the end of her sentence by piling tiny throw pillows on her face and groaning.

Eggsy coughs. “Let’s just say that imgur is a terrible, terrible place.” He tries to sit on the sofa, but Roxy’s taking up all the space. “Move, Rox.”

“Not until you get us wifi.” Her voice is voice muffled from all the useless throw pillows his mum had insisted on getting him as a housewarming gift. “You don’t even have any tea or milk, Eggsy, you’re an embarrassment.”

“Fine, I’ll get it tomorrow.” He offers. “Now move over.”

She shakes her head, except underneath all the pillows it looks more like a lump is moving than anything, really. “Ask your murderer neighbour for the wifi first.”

“Do you not hear anything wrong in that sentence?” He gets up reluctantly and walks towards the door, sighing.

“Love you, babes,” Roxy calls out, and Eggsy groans exaggeratedly in response.

 

* * *

 

This is a bad idea, Eggsy thinks, as he steels himself.

He rings the bell, and a dog immediately starts barking. Maybe he’s a murderer after all, he thinks, and is about to give up and walk back to his own flat when the door opens.

A _very_ attractive man in glasses and a red robe greets him. The man removes his glasses to rub at the bridge of his nose, and he puts them back on; the thick black frames a contrast against his pale skin. Eggsy swallows thickly.

“Evening.”

“Um, my wifi isn’t working--well. I don’t have wifi, and my friend is being annoying, and, oh god, sorry,” Eggsy babbles, trying not to stare.

“You would like to know my wifi password,” the man says. It’s not a question.

“Yes,” Eggsy says, helplessly.

The man nods. “Of course. I’ll write it on a piece of paper for you,” he says, and walks back in. The door’s still open, although Eggsy isn’t going to risk going inside and feeling even more out of place than he already does.

He’s able to see a fancy-looking corridor from where he’s standing, along with framed artwork that’s probably worth more than his student loans. The man has also somehow managed to install wood flooring, as evident by the constant click-clacking of his footsteps as Eggsy anticipates his return.

The man hands him a name card of some sort. “Here you go.” The card’s text is embossed and the surface feels smoother than any paper Eggsy’s touched.

“Your wifi password’s got its own name card, then?” Eggsy says, despite himself.

“I’ve written it on the back of a company card,” the man says. There’s a faint smile playing on the corner of his lips. “My name’s Harry Hart, I’m terribly sorry I didn’t introduce myself earlier.”

“Eggsy,” he replies, turning the card over. _Harry Hart, Kingsman Tailor,_ the card reads.

“Nice to meet you, Eggsy,” Harry says, with a little nod. His hands are tucked into the pockets of his red robe, and Eggsy wants to wrap his hands around Harry’s wrists, and--

“You too, mate. I guess I’d better get back, a friend’s waiting.” Eggsy says, although he reluctantly tears himself away from Harry’s front door. “Thanks for the wifi,” he adds, and walks away hurriedly before Harry can say anything else.

* * *

 

“Did you get the wifi--”

“I got the bloomin’ wifi password, cheers,” he groans, holding the name card up. Maybe he’s overreacting, but he swears he feels the tell-tale signs of a headache starting to throb at the top of his skull.

Roxy sits upright, causing the sofa pillows to spill on the floor. “A tragedy,” she says, looking down, then, “right, why do you look so miserable.”

Eggsy hauls himself up on the kitchen worktop and sits on it with his feet dangling off the edge. “Never ask me to do that again,” he says, with a hand covering his face.

“Don’t be so dramatic. It couldn’t have been that bad,” she says, walking over to take the name card from Eggsy.

“Fancy,” she says, feeling the embossed pattern on the name card. “He’s a tailor, then?”

Eggsy shrugs. “His place looked posh as hell,” he says.

“I bet he was well fit,” Roxy jokes, and Eggsy reddens. “Oh, so that’s what it is,” she says, delighted.

“Fuck off, he’s just some posh fuck.”

“A fit fuck,” she says, and then cracks up over her own alliteration.

“Hilarious,” Eggsy says, deadpan.

“No, really, is that it?”

Eggsy remains silent.

“You can use this to your advantage, you know. Tomorrow you can tell him that you’ve lost the card, but still need wifi. Or you can show up to that Kingsman place and say hello.”

“I thought you desperately needed wifi? Stop bothering me about Harry.”

“Ooh, so he’s _Harry_ now,” Roxy says, nudging and giving him the world’s most exaggerated wink, but she takes her phone out and is busy typing in the wifi password, so Eggsy takes that as a win.

“I’m never doing anything nice for you ever again,” Eggsy says, and Roxy beams at him. “You’ve got data on your phone, anyway, this is rubbish.”

“Free wifi.” Roxy says, and then, “also, I genuinely wanted to marathon Parks and Recreation with you.”

Eggsy nods seriously. “Bobby Newport’s never had had a real job...in his life.”

“Bobby _Newport,_ ” Roxy says.

“ _Bobby Newport._ ”

“We are getting carried away,” Roxy says, and drags Eggsy back to the sofa. “Can you be an absolute darling and get my laptop from my handbag? It’s on the kitchen worktop.”

“Why did you bring me to the sofa then, you prick,” Eggsy grumbles as he gets up. Roxy laughs at him anyway, because Roxy is a terrible person.

“How do girls get so much shit in one bag,” Eggsy mutters to himself as he rifles through her things, having to pull out textbooks and notepads in the process.

“Feminine magic,” Roxy says, with a completely straight face. “All women have ten boxes of tampons and four lip balms in their bags at all times.”

Eggsy narrows his eyes at her for a moment before he relaxes. “Oh. You’re taking the piss.”

“Idiot,” she says, fondly. “Now bring me my laptop before I murder you.”

He takes a seat next to Roxy and opens her laptop. “What’s your password again?”

“I’m not telling you my password,” she says, making grabby hands. He resists the urge to roll his eyes and passes her laptop back. Her fingers fly across the keyboard, and she hits enter. Unsurprisingly, the first thing he sees is a paused episode of some show on Netflix. He turns to Roxy, smirking.

“It makes things convenient for us,” she settles on saying.

They pretty much shut up when the theme music kicks in, so Eggsy supposes that having to ask an intimidatingly attractive man for his wifi works out for the best after all.

 

* * *

 

Back when Eggsy was a fresher, he’d promised to himself that he’d never fall asleep in the library--and so he managed not to for three years. Fine, so he’d fallen asleep in various coffee shops around London instead, but whatever. He was still a man of principle--a principle that held absolutely no meaning of any sort, but a man of principle nonetheless.

He meets Roxy in another nameless coffee shop--she has her hair in a tight ponytail, she has a thick textbook open right next to the register, and she’s telling a customer to fuck off. Coincidentally, this was what woke him from his nap that he admittedly had not planned to take.

(The last thing he remembers is typing ‘9/11 conspiracy theories’ into google.)

Eggsy’s trying not to listen, but he’s been putting his work off for ages now, anyway. He figures that at the very least, his procrastination will serve a purpose if he’s snooping around.

“I don’t have time for this,” she says to the customer. “I’m not interested.”

“I was only having a bit of fun. Cheer up, love,” he says, but he gets the hint and leaves the shop, apparently forgetting all about his coffee.

There’s no one in the shop, so Eggsy’s comfortable enough to leave his stuff behind, unattended, to get another cup of coffee, and maybe a waffle of sorts. He’s a few feet away from the till when the barista says, “I’m not interested either.”

Eggsy reaches the till to protest. Her name tag reads Roxanne. “Me neither. Although if you were up for it, then I would be, too.” He gives her a silly wink, and is surprised when she throws her head back, laughing.

“I’m a lesbian, cheers.”

“Me too,” he grins, and the radiant smile that he gets in return is totally worth it.

“So are you going to order anything? I’d rather go back to Torts,” she says, tapping the side of her law textbook, but her tone is light and she pulls a face.

“Poor you. Yeah, another latte and a chocolate waffle would be great, thanks.”

He drums his fingers on the counter after he’s finished paying.

“You can take a seat, you know, the waffle’s going to take quite a bit,” Roxanne says, taking the waffle out of the refrigerated glass display case. She places it inside the oven and rubs her hands against her apron.

“It’s fine. Roxanne, right? Unless your name tag’s lying to me.”

She snorts and tucks a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “Call me Roxy.”

“Sick. Roxy, it’s fine. I’ll stay here and distract you from your work,” he says, flashing a smile.

“Fantastic,” she says flatly, as the coffee machine whirs to life; steam escaping and beans grinding.

\--and that’s how Eggsy manages to become Roxanne Morton’s Greatest Friend Alive.

* * *

 

“Tell him you’ve forgotten the password,” Roxy says, showing up in Eggsy’s flat unannounced. She’s leaning against the door with some heavy-looking binders cradled in her arms.

“I was planning to actually get some work done tonight,” he grumbles, not looking up from his laptop.

She sits down next to him and is undeterred by the creaking noise that the sofa makes. Jabbing his laptop screen, she says, “Collecting photos for your pinterest board of tattoos isn’t exactly research.”

“It is when you’re comparing tattoos between the mafia, triads, and the yakuza,” he sniffs. “Also, I can’t actually tell him I’ve forgotten the password. Devices remember networks they’ve connected to.” He wags his finger in the air triumphantly, and Roxy bats it away.

“Stop. Listen to yourself. Why are you avoiding him?”

“I’m not avoiding him!” He says, throwing his hands up. His laptop wobbles precariously on his lap, and they both look at it anxiously.

It stops wobbling, and Eggsy lets out a sigh of relief and closes it and places it on his coffee table. He clears his throat.

“I literally met the man once. Yeah, he’s fit, fine, but he’s old and posh. He’ll probably think I’m some silly kid too poor for wifi.”

After a while, Roxy says, “well, you _are_ a silly kid who’s too poor for wifi. But that’s not the point. The point is, I’ve met him through Merlin.”

“You what,” Eggsy chokes. Then, “Merlin, as in your mentor or whatever in that law firm you’re in?”

Roxy nods, her ponytail bobbing up and down. “Yeah, they’re best friends or something. His card says that he works at Kingsman, right?”

Eggsy stays silent.

She presses on. “He was at Merlin’s office the other day. You’re right, he’s a looker,” she says, leering. Eggsy punches her shoulder. “I’m not interested, don’t be a twat, Eggsy. You should pop into Kingsman one day.”

“I have no money.”

“Right,” Roxy exhales. “‘True love’,” she says, making air quotes, “doesn’t come cheap. But,” she turns to face Eggsy with a manic look in her eyes, and Eggsy would be lying if he said he wasn’t the slightest bit frightened--”didn’t you mention something about needing a suit for some sort of event for uni?”

Eggsy feels himself relax.

“Also, we can just, like, steal a suit to get his attention, or something.”

Never mind then.

“I am not going to Savile Row. I am not walking out of Savile Row with a stolen suit,” he hisses through gritted teeth.

“You’ve googled where his shop’s at? That’s adorable. Besides, your uni’s on Houghton Street. LSE’s fucking posh.”

Eggsy wills himself from turning red, but judging by how his ears feel like they’re hot enough to fry, well, eggs, he groans and shakes his head instead. “That’s my problem. It doesn’t matter,” he says. “The point is, no.”

* * *

 

“Why are we going to Oxford Circus on a Friday night,” Eggsy grumbles as he tightens his grip on the overhead pole. The Central Line is a fucking nightmare, he thinks. The carriage is overpopulated by men in suits with earbuds jammed into their ears and distressed tourists glancing upwards at the Underground map attached near the ceiling every five seconds.

Roxy smiles, all prim. “I need to fetch something from Merlin.”

“In Oxford Circus. On a Friday night.” he repeats, feeling helpless. A businessman right next to him is clearly struggling with a copy of the _Evening Standard_ ; elbowing an old lady in the process of turning its pages. She tuts at him.

“It was on his terms, not mine. Besides,” she says, not looking up from her phone, “it’s not all bad.”

“Says you,” he scoffs. “You’re playing Candy Crush and you’ve managed to get a seat. Although we’re only a stop away. I dunno why you would do that,” he mutters the latter to himself.

She shrugs, unblinking. The man sitting next to her coughs loudly, and she ignores him. “It’s important business.” She says, loudly. The rest of the carriage carries on pointedly refusing to make eye contact with anyone ever.

“This is Oxford Circus,” the pre-recorded announcer drones, as the train comes to a complete stop.

They walk out of the carriage and out of the platform together, and Eggsy shoves a couple of people accidentally-on-purpose as they hurry out of the station. Unsurprisingly, this proves to be a struggle, considering that there’s a traffic jam made of humans.  

“Are we meeting him in a shop, or something,” Eggsy says, fishing his Oyster card out of his coat pocket and tapping it on the ticket barrier, Roxy following close behind.

“Something like that,” she says, once they’re both climbing up the stairs. She’s busy rummaging through her handbag to find her purse, and she lets out a soft ‘hah’ of triumph when she ends up finding it. “Thank God you don’t have that dreadful tracksuit on,” she says, patting Eggsy’s olive green trench coat. They’ve surfaced to the top, and they’re hovering near the station’s entrance.

Oxford Circus is beautiful, he grudgingly admits (to nobody but himself), and he’s not even angry when a tourist whacks his kneecap with a heavy Selfridges bag.

Well. He’s slightly irritated, but whatever.

Roxy types an address into Google Maps. “It’s a six minute walk from here to the meeting point.”

“Turn right after Liberty London,” Google practically yells. They both wince, and she immediately turns the volume down.

“Where the hell are we headed to, Rox,” Eggsy says, as she picks up the pace, her heels clacking against the pavement.

She waves Eggsy off. “You’ll see.”

Dread lurches in his stomach when they keep on heading south. “Stop being so bait,” he mutters.

“I don’t know what you’re on about,” she replies, looking dead serious. She unlocks her phone, and Google helpfully informs them that they’re closer to their destination.

After a while, her phone rings.

“Merlin?” She says, picking it up. She puts a finger over her lips, and Eggsy fights the urge to say something stupid.

He does, anyway. “Rox, do you want to go for a cheeky Nando’s?” He practically bellows, and is rewarded by the murderous expression on Roxy’s face. Roxy and Merlin continue talking, and Eggsy is honestly unable to tell whatever they’re talking about. It’s a bit of a relief when she finally hangs up.

“I can’t believe you actually said the words ‘cheeky’ and ‘Nando’s’ in the same sentence,” Roxy groans as she puts her phone away. “You are incorrigible.”

Eggsy grins madly at her, but is more than slightly alarmed when he realises that there are less tourists around and more people impeccably dressed taking their place. Then it hits him.

“We’re in Savile Row, aren’t we.”

They reach a tailor shop with _Kingsman_ emblazoned on the shop window in a gold font. Eggsy is impressed.

“I am unimpressed,” he tells Roxy. Judging by her raised eyebrows and her cool expression, she’s not falling for it. He’s not, either.

There’s a bald man with horn-rimmed glasses standing next to the shop. He stops tapping at his tablet to frown at the both of them.

He adjusts his glasses. “I thought you were coming alone.”

“You’re stuck with me, bruv,” Eggsy shrugs.

Roxy nudges him. “I’m sorry about Eggsy. I just wanted to get him fitted for a suit.”

“You what?” Eggsy splutters.

Something flashes across the man’s face, before he shakes his head. “Ah. You’re--well. I’m Merlin,” the man settles on saying, extending a hand to Eggsy.

“Eggsy,” he replies, shaking his hand. Roxy’s looking at the both of them, clearly amused.

“Is Harry in?” She says, with a straight face, but Eggsy spots her lips twitching upwards. You _bastard_ , he thinks.

“Yes,” Merlin replies, coughing loudly. “Excuse me. I believe he’s behind the till inside the shop.” He turns to Eggsy. “Why don’t you go inside? Roxy and I have a case to go over.”

“Bye, Eggsy!” She waves, and the two of them walk off, leaving Eggsy alone in the middle of Savile Row with the prospect of meeting a freakishly attractive man to get his imaginary suit fitted.

He flips them off when their backs are turned to him, and he sighs.

The shop incorporates golden and wooden elements, and the exterior alone is enough to make Eggsy feel small. The mannequins are dressed impeccably and the green canopy looms over him. He’s busy trying not to stare at the store open-mouthed, and so he doesn’t quite manage to hear the soft footfall approaching him.

“Good evening, Eggsy.”

He jumps and lets out a rush of breath. “Jesus. Hi.”

“I’m afraid I’m not quite the Messiah,” Harry says, leaning against his umbrella. He’s halfway outside the store with one foot keeping the door open. Somehow he still manages to look elegant; his trousers barely creasing. The small smile he has on his lips makes something twist in Eggsy’s gut.

“I’m aware of that, cheers.” Eggsy finds that he’s unable to cover a smile of his own.

The both of them stay like that; Eggsy with his hands digging deeper into his coat pockets, and Harry standing by the shop’s entrance. Along the street, men with briefcases come and go, and the sound of car engines starting and stopping start to blend in with the quiet chatter of pedestrians and shopkeepers alike.

“I’m closing the shop soon,” Harry says, voice soft. Eggsy’s about to make a noise of agreement; turning around to leave when Harry invites him in.

“You what?”

Harry adjusts his cuffs, not quite looking at Eggsy. “I heard from Merlin that you needed a suit fitted.”

“I have this dinner to go to with the social policy department soon, yeah,” he finds himself saying, and that’s all it takes for Harry to usher him into the shop with a hand on the small of Eggsy’s back. Eggsy feels warm all over; _wanted_ , and he involuntarily sucks in a shaky breath.

If Harry notices, he doesn’t mention it, for his hand remains on Eggsy until he steps away to allow Eggsy to fully take in the store.

Eggsy feels like a child; drinking in the sight of suits and ties and cufflinks that twinkle under the soft lighting of the store. There are umbrellas similar to Harry’s in a display case of sorts, and Eggsy’s fingers itch to touch, to feel--

 _But you don’t belong here_ , a cruel voice reminds him, and he feels the smile that he didn’t realise was on his face slip away. “It’s lovely,” he says, feeling distant and detached. He wants to belong, more than anything, but Harry will probably remind him of his place soon and he backs away and--

“Are you alright, my dear boy?” Harry says. Eggsy wants to lean against his chest and have him hold him. He’s gone fucking mad, he thinks, and starts laughing out of his own accord.

He grins widely. “I’m fine, Haz.”

The sudden use of the nickname is apparently enough to convince Harry, for he immediately throws his head back and laughs, although he tells Eggsy to never call him that ever again. Eggsy feels lighter; like he’s able to breathe again.

“Shall we get that suit of yours, then?”

 

* * *

 

After having gone through a considerable struggle to get the suit fitted; mostly due to Eggsy’s bewilderment and constant questioning of the whole process--” _Twelve weeks_ for a _suit_ to be made? That’s mental,”--they’ve somehow ended up in a Costa talking about absolutely everything and nothing at the same time. It’s lovely.

Harry takes a sip of his tea. “You’re doing a masters, then?”

Eggsy nods, idly stirring his latte. “In Social Policy at the LSE, yeah.”

“I’m impressed, well done.”

Heat floods Eggsy’s cheeks. “It’s not a big deal, really. I actually quite enjoy the course--I’m just glad to be able to sort of, I dunno,” he breaks off, “redeem myself after pissing about as an undergraduate student.”

Harry nods, thoughtful. “The government--or any NGO, really, would be a better place with people like you, Eggsy.”

“You--you’re ridiculous,” Eggsy says, cheeks definitely resembling some sort of tomato at this point, and Harry laughs.

“I do mean it, you know. You have so much potential.”

“We’ve just met,” Eggsy says, feeling out of sorts.

“I know that. But I do want to get to know you more.”

“Well, Harry,” Eggsy grins, holding his paper cup in the air, “I feel the same way too.”

That gets a laugh out of Harry and they tap their paper cups against each other; the both of them giggling like schoolboys over the world’s shittiest toast. There’s barely anyone left in the store and the barista looks unamused, but Eggsy can’t quite bring himself to care.

 

* * *

 

“Did you fuck him in the dressing room?”

Eggsy chokes on his Red Bull. “No,” he gasps. “Seriously, Rox, we haven’t met in a month and this is what you come up with?”

“I’m serious,” Roxy presses. “I had to explain the whole thing to Merlin, who laughed at me for a whole day straight. He thinks he’s some shitty Cupid now.”

“When will the universe let me do some work,” he tells his textbooks on his coffee table. Both his textbooks and the universe remain silent. On the other hand, Roxy’s too busy laughing.

“Have you talked to him since then?”

“Yeah, over the phone and stuff,” Eggsy mumbles. “And we talk for a bit when we see each other in, like, the lift.”

“You’re _blushing._ ”

“Am not,” Eggsy says, but at this point, Roxy will probably insist he is irregardless.

“You’ve had that bespoke suit made, though,” she says after a while, poking Eggsy’s hip. “Also, you shouldn’t be drinking so much Red Bull.” (Considering that he has an entire shelf in his kitchen cabinet dedicated to Red Bull, she may have a point.)

“Yeah, yeah, it’s in my bedroom cupboard somewhere.”

“Put it on.”

“What?”

“ _Put it on_.”

“Have you gone _mental?_ The suit’s not done anyway; was messing with you. Takes like, twelve weeks or something. I’ve got eight weeks to go.”

“Whatever, we’re going out tonight,” Roxy says, undeterred, and Eggsy raises his eyebrows so high he’s sure they’ve disappeared into his hairline. He can already feel his textbooks glaring at him and his mum is probably sat at home, frowning at him telepathically or something.

“No.” He goes back to scribbling furiously on his foolscap pad. He’s always liked writing out his notes rather than typing them, although if he’s feeling lazy he just returns to his laptop. Said laptop is tucked away in his backpack somewhere in his kitchen, near other unopened books that he’d bought for his course. He can’t be arsed to walk over and take it, despite the fact that his hand is cramping up from all the writing he’s doing,

“Fine.”

It’s not like Roxy to concede so quickly and to let Eggsy win, so it feels like a hollow victory.

She gets up from the sofa and picks up her belongings. “I’m not the one who’s taking you out, anyway.” She’s sat on the dining chair putting her boots on.

“Did you set me up on a blind date or something?” Eggsy says, dropping his pen onto his notebook and cradling his head in his hands.

“Or something,” Roxy says, standing up to take her coat that she’d draped around the chair.

“Rox, I swear--”

“Look, he’s good for you, I promise. You seem more, I don’t know,” she breaks off, sighing. “Cheerful now. Maybe at the prospect of having a crush, as silly as it may seem--don’t give me that look, Gary Unwin.” She finishes putting her coat on. “You know perfectly well who I’m talking about. The string of texts you sent me about his hands were too much.”

With that, she gives Eggsy a little salute and walks out of his flat.

Eggsy sinks further into the sofa. He’s never telling Roxy anything ever again. He wants to tell her this, but she’s gone, so he hates her even more for that. Whatever, he tells himself.

He falls back into his work, and an hour manages to pass. Pleased with the work he’s done, he gets up to make himself a cup of tea when the sofa--no, his phone starts to buzz. He gropes blindly for his phone, probably under a pillow somewhere. After much confusion, he manages to find it wedged in the sofa crack. Squinting at the screen, his phone tells him that an unknown number is calling him.

“Hello?” He says, tentatively.

“Hello, is this Eggsy speaking?” Oh, fuck. It’s-- “Harry Hart, in case you don’t have my number. Or recognise my voice, for that matter.” Harry chuckles, deep, and Eggsy is more than slightly smitten.

“Hi, yes, hello,” Eggsy squeaks, and he clears his throat in a futile attempt to get his voice to return to normal. “I am here. This is Eggsy.”

He adjusts himself so he’s sitting up straight instead of typically slouching. (He’s not sure who he’s trying to impress, here.)

“Wonderful,” Harry murmurs. Eggsy does not melt into the sofa pillows. Absolutely not. “I’m terribly sorry for the inconvenience, but I believe Merlin and Roxy have conspired against us.” Eggsy swears he can hear Harry smiling over the phone. The whole affair feels awfully intimate, although maybe he’s just overthinking things.

“What do you mean?”

“I believe I am supposed to take you out tonight.”

“You what,” Eggsy says, feeling lightheaded. He’s not sure whether to strangle Roxy or to kiss her instead.

“They requested for me to do so,” Harry explains, “although I would be very much disappointed if you chose not to,” he says softly, as if confiding in Eggsy.

Eggsy takes his phone away from his ear and stares at it like it’s grown a head of its own. After shaking his head, he presses his phone back against his ear. “Yeah, that’s fine, god, I look like shit right now though.” It’s not an exaggeration of sorts, if the scattered cans of Red Bull on his table and his dark circles under his eyes are anything to go by. The old sixth form football club hoodie he has on doesn’t help him, either.

“If that’s the case, we can eat in tonight, I genuinely don’t mind. Just come as you are,” Harry says, warm, and Eggsy finds himself agreeing.

There’s a stupid smile on Eggsy’s face when he’s hung up, and he brings a hand up to his face like a teenage girl. “Get a grip,” he tells himself, but he feels himself smiling anyway.

Harry had told him to be prepared in fifteen minutes, so he makes a mad dash to his wardrobe to try and make himself look presentable.

He pulls out his shirts from the depths of his wardrobe, and he frowns at the creases and wrinkles all over every single shirt he owns. Fuck his life, seriously. He has an entire shelf dedicated to tracksuits and another dedicated to jumpers.

“That’ll do,” he mutters, pulling out a black woolen jumper. It’s dark enough to hide any wrinkles that it probably has, and Eggsy holds it up against his chest approvingly before tossing it onto his bed.

The dark jeans lurking in his wardrobe fit well with his jumper, so he grabs those and lays them flat on his bed right underneath his jumper. Like a crude Art Attack piece. Modern art, he thinks, staring at the ungodly amount of clothes he’s dumped on his bed.

He’s busy tugging his hoodie off when he realises that he’s dressed like some sort of neo-modern goth. Or a philosophy student, he thinks. With his hoodie still halfway on; one arm in a sleeve and the other bare, he walks out to his living room to peer at his shoes.

His shoes are mostly trainers of some sort, and he winces at his brown leather shoes, knowing full well that he can’t possibly wear those. (He’d found out from Roxy that apparently wearing black trousers with brown shoes were a Terrible Mistake.)

He squints at his shoe rack, and breaks out into a grin upon seeing his white Common Projects. They’re trainers, sure, but they’re like, expensive, he tells himself. Harry’d better appreciate this, he grunts as he pulls them out and sets them by the foot of his coffee table.

Back in his room, he’s reminded of the mess on his bed that he’ll have to fix later. Sighing, Eggsy properly pulls his hoodie off and replaces it with the black jumper he’d taken out. The jumper fits snugly on him and doesn’t seem to be wrinkled, or anything, so he’s sticking with it. He pulls his jeans on and looks at himself in the mirror, pulling a face and making silly finger guns at his reflection.

He spots his watch by his bedside table, and takes a look at it. The amount of time he has left is alarming, pun intended, he thinks. He puts the watch on his wrist and grabs cologne from his shelf and sprays a liberal amount before he’s realised he’s sprayed too much and starts coughing violently.

So much for dressing like a man who didn’t give a fuck, then.

 

* * *

 

“Fifteen minutes weren’t enough,” he tells Harry, slightly out of breath.

“You’ve dressed appropriately, for once,” Harry smirks.

Eggsy coughs. Harry’s in a suit, because the world continues to conspire against his wellbeing. “You’re in a suit,” he says, his tongue thick in his mouth.

“Indeed I am.”

“I should be in a suit.”

“Nonsense,” Harry dismisses him with a wave of his hand, and steps out of the way to allow Eggsy to properly enter his flat.

Harry’s flat is a mess, which takes Eggsy by surprise. It’s not exactly a mess in the strictest sense, he concedes, it just looks more lived-in than he’d actually expected. There are piles upon piles of books on nearly every surface imaginable. The once-intimidating corridor seems inviting now that he’s actually inside.

“Sick,” he says, staring at the various paintings on the walls. There’s an assortment of framed butterflies and the like; making Eggsy feel as if he’s stepped into an academic’s office. He runs his hands on some of the books on the table and is surprised when his fingers come back dust-free.

“You actually read these, yeah. They’re not just for show or anything.”

“Of course, my dear boy. These aren’t decorations, you know. I genuinely like reading,” Harry says, with a smile.

There’s a framed photo of what appears to be Harry as a young boy. He’s frowning into the camera; arms slung over another boy’s shoulders. “You look so angry,” Eggsy laughs.

“I do believe I was going through a Marxist phase at the time.”

“Shut up.”

“I’m being serious. Made my friend Guy--the young man right next to me in the photo--memorise bits of the Communist Manifesto and everything.”

“Is this what they teach boys in Eton?” Eggsy says, amused.

“Probably not.” Harry admits.

Eggsy walks and pokes around Harry’s flat for a little bit longer before his stomach lets out a growl. “Motherfuck,” he glares at his stomach, the traitor.

“I was in the middle of making dinner, actually, so I’ll just pop back to the kitchen, if you don’t mind.”

Eggsy pats his stomach. “No problem, chef. Smells good, anyway.”

Harry gives him a look. “That’s probably just the air freshener.”

Eggsy sniffs, and the smell of flowers is definitely more pungent, now. He coughs. “I knew that.”

“Of course,” Harry says, walking back into the kitchen, and Eggsy swears he’s trying not to smirk.

Eggsy decides to grab a book he had heard Roxy talk about and brings it into the living room, trying to distract himself from the fact that _Harry Hart_ is cooking dinner for two. He’s busy flipping through the book when he hears a dog yipping.

Said dog is currently nipping away at his ankles; tugging at the fabric of Eggsy’s jeans. “These are the only good trousers I have, mate,” he says, mournfully. He pats and rubs the dog anyway because he’s a sucker of the worst kind, apparently.

When he goes to sit on the sofa, book in hand, the dog follows and curls up next to Eggsy. The dog has a name tag around its neck, and Eggsy takes it between his fingers, curious.

“Mr. Pickle,” he reads out, laughing. Jesus. Harry Hart, a middle-aged man with a dog named Mr. Pickle. Life truly is full of mysteries.

He stares at Mr. Pickle, and Mr. Pickle stares back. The poor man’s Nietzsche, he thinks. Eggsy shakes his head and pats Mr. Pickle with his free hand while he opens the book with the other.

Harry walks into the living room with his suit jacket off, his tie gone, and his white shirtsleeves folded up to his elbows. His entire look is completed by an apron with a rather aggressive looking reindeer stitched onto it, and he has a wooden spatula in his hand. There’s a bit of damp hair sticking to his forehead, and Eggsy wonders what it would be like to be able to push it back and--

“Is a mushroom risotto alright?”

“Anything you make will be alright,” Eggsy finds himself saying.

Harry raises an eyebrow.

“I’m hungry, god, go away.”

“Will do,” Harry says, humming as he heads back towards the kitchen.

“Your apron’s gone loose,” Eggsy yells.

Harry walks back into the living room, still holding the spatula. “Could you be a dear and tie it together for me, please? I’m afraid my hands are rather preoccupied.”

Eggsy tries not to blush and he scrambles to his feet; Mr. Pickle whimpering in protest. “Sure, bruv,” he says, as Harry turns around, his back facing Eggsy. “I don’t see why you couldn’t have just tied it yourself,” he grumbles in order to distract Harry from the fact that his fingers are slightly trembling.

“Nonsense. If I had tied it myself, where would the spatula go?”

“You could have given it to me to hold,” Eggsy points out, as he finishes tying the knot.

“Ah. Good point,” Harry says, turning to face Eggsy.

Eggsy smirks. “I see things you don’t see,” he says, adding relatively weak ghost noises, waggling his fingers.

If Harry were the sort of person to roll their eyes, he would have probably done so at that point. Instead, Harry sighs and gives him a look that can only be described as Disappointed Father, which brings Eggsy to a whole other dimension that he’s not quite ready to talk about just yet.

Eggsy waves Harry goodbye as Harry returns to the kitchen, and he snaps out of his state when Mr. Pickle pants by his feet. “Good boy,” he tells him.

He can hear sizzling noises from the kitchen accompanied by the smell of frying mushrooms floating through the corridor and into the living room.

“I’m a mess,” he confesses to Mr. Pickle.

Mr. Pickle barks at him sympathetically.

 

* * *

 

 

“This is wonderful,” Eggsy says around a mouthful of risotto. You’re wonderful, Eggsy thinks, and has to stop himself before dinner turns into some sort of Mills & Boon novel.

“I’m glad you like it.”

“Is it like, a family recipe or something?”

Harry pushes his glasses up on his nose. “I googled ‘easy recipes’.”

“And people wonder why romance is dead,” Eggsy jokes, and immediately regrets doing so.

Judging by the laugh that he gets, Eggsy hasn’t fucked up too badly, so whatever. Maybe dinner turning into a Mills & Boon novel isn’t necessarily a bad thing. Harry’s actually fixed candles on the table and everything, so in that regard, Harry’s way ahead of him.

Harry’s suit jacket remains draped over on a dining chair, so Eggsy doesn’t feel too out of place when he pushes the sleeves of his jumper up. They’re sipping on some sort of Pinot Noir--Eggsy’s not too sure, he’s watched _Sideways_ once--and to be honest, Eggsy had kind of tuned out when Harry had started talking about wine in favour of staring at his face instead.

The entire situation is a bit surreal, and Eggsy’s kept busy by pinching his thigh just in case it’s all just some sort of bizarre dream. He’s half expecting that twat Charlie Hesketh from his Criminal Justice Policy course to wake him up by splashing a bucket of ice water on him or something.

The look Eggsy has on his face as he’s watching Harry talk about--something, he doesn’t even know anymore--is probably just embarrassing. He can feel himself smiling too widely or laughing too loudly whenever Harry says something. Roxy would have a fit and die laughing, probably.

“--and that’s how I fought elephants in Bolivia,” Harry finishes.

Eggsy nods.

“I never actually fought elephants in Bolivia,” Harry says, amused. “I was trying to see whether you were actually listening.”

“Sorry, your risotto is just kind of,” he finishes his mouthful and swallows to make a noise mimicking an explosion. “Mental. Also, I don’t doubt your ability to fight elephants.”

“I’m a tailor, not some sort of elephant-fighting spy, Eggsy.”

Eggsy shakes his head. “No, but you’re like, well fit. In both senses of the word.” He holds his fork up and points it at Harry, waggling his eyebrows. He’s not sure what he’s trying to achieve here.

Harry’s face twitches.

“I’m drunk,” Eggsy says, after a considerable silence.

“You’ve had one glass of wine.”

“It was fancy wine, innit? I heard it gets you drunk faster.” He says with a conspiratorial grin.

“I got it from Tesco, Eggsy.”

A beat, and then, “I heard cheap wine gets you drunk faster.”

Harry sighs, but there’s a hint of a smile playing on his lips, so Eggsy’ll take it. He’ll take anything from Harry. Including his cock, probably. He chokes on the wine at the thought and curses himself.

“The wine’s not _that_ bad.”

“No,” Eggsy agrees, and proceeds to stuff himself in the hopes that he’ll shut up once and for all.

Dinner is a smoother affair after Eggsy decides to actually think before he speaks, and he manages to have another bowl of risotto without embarrassing himself too much. He listens to Harry’s tales about public school, and in turn, Eggsy tells him horror stories about BTEC Hair and Beauty.

“My scalp was bright purple for a week,” he finishes. “Never trust seventeen year olds with your hair.”

“Maybe I’ll consider that option if I ever decide to dye my hair purple,” Harry says, straight-faced.

“Ha bloody ha,” Eggsy says, sipping on his wine. He manages not to choke on it, so he reckons he’s matured both emotionally and physically.

Once they’re finished with their meal, Harry takes the plates back to the kitchen, protesting when Eggsy tries to take them back himself. “Just stay here, Eggsy,” Harry says, and Eggsy swallows thickly and stays put.

He manages to send a frantic text to Roxy while he’s sat there waiting. _Rox help me b is this a date or nah I can’t tell,_ he types out. He glances at Harry, who’s busy washing dishes in the kitchen, and wills Roxy to reply him faster.

 _youre fucking hopeless i cant deal w u rn eggs._ is the reply that comes back, along with fried eggs and fire emojis.

Eggsy stares at his phone and pushes his hair back, sighing, before realising that he’s messed up the pseudo-quiff he’d styled his hair into. He looks at his hand; the traitor. Just like every other part of his body.

Harry returns with a dish towel over his shoulder and a slightly frazzled expression. There are wet handprints on his thighs; visible even against his dark slacks. “I’m afraid I’ve cocked up the dishwasher.”

(Tearing his eyes away from Harry’s thighs prove to be a difficult feat, but he succeeds in the end.)

“What did you do?” Eggsy says, genuinely curious. The evening’s already a mess for Eggsy, so seeing Harry out of his element is a refreshing experience.

Harry beckons him to the kitchen, and Eggsy follows, taking tentative steps forward.

‘Cocked up’ is an understatement. There’s soap suds everywhere--the floor’s covered in bubbles and Eggsy does not want to be the person tasked with the job of opening the dishwasher itself. The dishwasher’s overflowing with liquid and tiny bubbles, and Eggsy regretfully steps into a soap puddle with his socks on.

Eggsy looks at Harry in disbelief.

Harry sighs and holds up a bottle of dish-washing liquid up. “I fucked up.”

The entire scene is ridiculous--the kitchen’s practically flooded and two grown men are standing in the middle of the mess in a poor imitation of a bubble bath. Eggsy bursts out laughing and holds onto the kitchen worktop to brace himself and Harry watches, snickering softly.

“I should have done the dishes,” Eggsy manages to wheeze out in the middle of his laughter.

“I don’t normally ruin my dishwasher on dates,” Harry says, with a smile.

Eggsy nearly loses his footing and coughs, leaning against the kitchen drawers in a desperate attempt to look casual. “A what?”

Harry gives him an Unimpressed Look. “I don’t go around putting dishwashing liquid into dishwashers for just anybody.”

“You did this deliberately?” Eggsy says, truly confused now. “That’s a waste of resources, mate.”

“Fuck’s sake,” Harry says, and takes a step closer to Eggsy. “This is a date, you--”

Eggsy’ll probably never find out what Harry meant to say, because _Harry Hart_ is _kissing_ Eggsy with his _lips_ that are on _Eggsy’s lips_.

Eggsy pulls away. “You kissed me,” he gasps.

Harry’s face completely unreadable. “Yes.”

“You’re into me, then?” Eggsy says, smirking, running his eyes over Harry’s body in a bid to hide his nerves. “Like, I’ve fancied you for quite a bit, now, and,” he finishes, unsure of what to say next. He settles for giving Harry a thumbs up.

“You prat,” Harry sighs, and cups the back of Eggsy’s neck with a hand; the other holding Eggsy’s hip.

“I thought gentlemen asked politely.” Eggsy says, leaning into the touch.

Harry gives Eggsy a smile that’s all teeth. “Please,” he murmurs, and Eggsy manages to breathe out a shaky ‘yes’ before Harry pushes him against the kitchen drawers and kisses Eggsy roughly; his grip hot on Eggsy’s neck.

Eggsy lets out a sigh that’s half a contented moan, and Harry smiles against his lips, only to suck at the hollow of Eggsy’s neck. He guides Harry’s face up to face his, and Eggsy presses a butterfly-light kiss on Harry’s lips before giggling.

“What’s so funny?” Harry says, smiling. He’s rubbing the short hairs on the nape of Eggsy’s neck, and Eggsy tries not to shudder.

“You called me in here to fix this mess,” he says, pointing at the mess with a socked foot. “I don’t think kissing is going to help.”

Harry snorts drops a dish towel that’s been hanging on a cabinet handle onto the ground. “We’ve solved the problem,” he says, and Eggsy laughs, charmed.

There’s a bit of soap that’s somehow gone on Harry’s collar, and he uses it as an excuse to tug at his shirt to bring him closer; spreading his legs so Harry can press a thigh against his own. “You have soap on your collar,” Eggsy tells him, gasping a bit as Harry squeezes his arse.

“Is that so,” Harry says, removing his glasses to set them on the kitchen worktop. He doesn’t move away from Eggsy.

“Yes,” Eggsy tells him seriously, despite the fact that his heart’s hammering in his chest.

“The entire kitchen is covered in soap, my dear,” Harry says, holding a straight face for two moments before bursting into actual giggles. Eggsy hates him so, so much.

“You killed it,” Eggsy mourns. Harry shrugs and steps away from Eggsy to open a kitchen drawer; fishing out several dish towels. He passes Eggsy one and looks at him expectantly.

Eggsy throws his head back and groans. “We were in the middle of something important.”

“Eggsy, you do realise that I did not, in fact, cause this soapy mess to happen on purpose. Help an old man out, won’t you?”

“Oh, so now you’re an old man only when it’s convenient for you,” Eggsy grumbles, but he reaches down and starts laying dishtowels on the puddles anyway.

“If I’m being honest, you turn me into a dirty old man of sorts,” Harry says, leering.

Eggsy lets out a strangled noise and nearly slips on the soapy mess.

“You need to work on your balance,” Harry looks at him disapprovingly. He leans down and presses a kiss on the top of Eggsy’s head, and Eggsy falls over for real this time.

“My jumper is ruined,” Eggsy says, as he feels water seep through the fabric. He gives up and lies down on the floor and stares resolutely at the ceiling. He cranes his neck to glare half-heartedly at Harry. “You have ruined me.”

To his surprise, Harry takes a seat on the floor next to Eggsy, crossing his legs. “The view’s excellent here, though.”

“I can only see your bloody fridge.”

“I was talking about you.”

Eggsy discovers that Harry makes him blush at an alarming rate.

“Lie down with me, you incorrigible fuck.” Eggsy says, patting the empty space next to him.

“Big words,” Harry says, because Eggsy’s quickly discovering that he’s a twat. Harry lies down anyway, and they both snicker at the absurdity of it all. “And you were complaining that I had a little soap on my shirt.” He sighs as the foam gets spread all over his clothes.

Eggsy yawns and covers his face with his elbow. “We can wash up together, innit.” He turns to Harry and winks.

Harry groans.

Eggsy cackles and Harry sighs and kisses him square on the mouth.

They’re covered in soap and Eggsy’ll probably have to buy a new jumper at this rate, but the way Harry’s eyes crinkle as he smiles is so, so worth it. They’ll work something out.

 

**Author's Note:**

> hhhhhh hh h m yGOD this took FOREVER to finish. shoutout 2 my betas [jess](http://snowswells.tumblr.com) & [divya](http://sensate.tk) u saved my life!!! !!!! ! (any mistakes left r completely my fault ok thanks)
> 
> halfway thru writing this i spent an unnecessary amount of time watching videos of the london underground i'm not even kidding. 
> 
> and it's nowhere near like a 50k word epic but the entire time i was writing it i was just kinda like HELP WHEN DOES THIS END bc i lit meant for this 2 b a drabble 2 b posted on day 1..i'm serious.... pls....
> 
> ok thank u for listening 2 me rambling hmu on [ twitter ](http://twitter.com/kvryakin) n we can yell abt hartwin or sth idk


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